Scots Poems: Fishy

The Snaa Kirk: After Ballater in Snow: David Smith RSW Can be sung to the tune of the 19th century Welsh Ballad St Denio, (converted to a hymn by Walter C. Smith b. Aberdeen 1824 Stinch kirk in the clachan, stauns happit in snaa, Bides siccar, far storms an far cauld breezes blaw, Bedaizzlin, aybydan, each Ben aa aroon, Is happit in ermine, its fite wintry goun Each pathie is snaa clad and seelent, the licht, O Heiven strikkin stained glaiss, makks a braw skinklin sicht; At nicht aa the starnies shine bonnie tae see The kirk in the clachan, bi the derk rollin Dee Each Sizzen brings treisurs tae gie new delicht; The boughs o the birk trees shakk deinty an slicht By the kirk that ben ages in its pews an its staas Baptizes an blesses inbye its stoot waas Stinch kirk in the clachan, stauns happit in snaa, Bides siccar, far storms an far cauld breezes blaw, Bedaizzlin, aybydan, each Ben aa aroon, Is happit in ermine, its fite wintry goun Check me Oot: After Check this Out: Stanley Bird Check me Oot I'm a humdinger A bobbydazzler A braw singer A wee stoater A bough swinger A faist winger I'm a cocky birkie I'm aywis mirkie Check me oot I'm snazzy I'm jazzy I'm the bees'knees Jist sheetin the breeze The Birds' Romance: After Still Life Floor Arrangement: Glen Scouller RSW RGI A shag flew in frae the cauld North Sea Seekin a mate tae wed He perched on a windae near the toun Bi wheeplin bird-sang led An thonner he spied a wee fite doo That pierced his seaman's hairt Fin she spied him, they baith wir pierced Bi Cupid's luvin dert He bides wi her alternate wikks In her hame fin they bide on lan An she flees oot the antrin whyles As they woo alang the stran An sae the sea an the lan based birds Hae made a life thegither Tho the wee fite doo, she wishes whyles The sea kept better weather Fower Hennies: After Henhouse & Winter Sun: Glen Scouller RSW RGI Foo's yer Hennies? Ay peckin Fence tod-proof? Ay checkin Are they broody? Ay clockin Mony eggies? Oot poppin Winter frosty? Feathers cosy Happy hennies Hen hoose toasty The Maquette: After Mijbil Otter Maquette II: Laurence Broderick The Scottish naturalist Gavin Maxwell took an otter as a pet & named it Mijbil. A maquette is the ultimate pet Ye'll nae need a hutch, or a vet It'll bide in yer hoose Be as quest as a moose It'll niver bite, keech or upset Ony veesitin friens Be a drain on yer means Wi a maquette yer niver in debt Herbour: After Harbour Doors: George Birrell Afore ye open the door, ye smell the coast Even the seagulls hoast Skreich, skreich skreich Fishermen clean their nets in their yalla wellies Their denner o shrimps an chips Sweels roon their bellies A day skooshin oot fishy guts Then hame tae watch their tellies The Bawd's Last Will: After Hare: David Meredith I leave ma lugs sae saft an warm Tae makk a luggit bunnet I leave ma een sae derk an bricht As preens tae pit upon it I leave ma speed tae ma rabbit fiers Sae they micht jink the tod An I leave ma bree fur a fine gravy Made frae ma ain hairt's bluid Gowfer: After Golfer & Junior Caddie: Michael Clark RSW PAI I am a gowfer, gowf is my delicht. I gowf in sna, storm, sun, in sleet an rain. My wife, I think, prefers me, ooto sicht. I dinna humpf ma clubs aa on ma lane. I pye a caddie loon tae save ma feet I gie him pocket money, fur his pain I am a gowfer, gowf is my delicht Skelpin a baa aa day, frae dawn tae nicht Figureheid: After Her Majesty: Gordon Wilson A fisherman's wife on the front o a boat Wi a belly as big's a whale An her hair rowed up in knottit cloot Stauns fit tae face a gale Nae storm wid caa her aff her stott Her dowp is wechtit doon Wi years o Mars bars, shortbreid, chips She widnae sink, she'd droon If the Kraken saw this coastal quine It wid turn tail an flee As figureheids gyang, she's stoot an strang As a daud o masonry The Sen Aff The host, fur aince, wis quaet, seemed unaware The young, fa barely kent him, didnae care His friens, clean shaven, wore their Sabbath best Spakk o the wye that he hid aye bounced back His antics, ploys, his winnin wye wi weemin A legendary leader o the pack The auld fowk spakk o ither kin langsyne His uncles, aunts, wirk brithers, antrin luver Raiked ower the coals wi sancts an ne'er dae weels Staunin tae see him aff, shouder tae shouder It wis a sen aff fit fur ony laird Mair warmth that he hid kent in his hale life The piper ootbye playin Flooer o Scotlan The loss cut ben the murners like a knife In Memoriam: Prof. Sir Charles Duncan Rice, died February 2022 He wis a frien o lear, champion o truith He ne'er forgot his Aiberdonian reets Age didnae cheenge him, ay promotin youth Helpin the Wird Festival gae us sic treats! A quaet revolution'ry he wis caad, He wis a truly philanthropic cheil If there's a heiven this Sir Galahad Will win the prize fur pioneerin zeal He wis a bobby-dazzler, makker, shakker Wi the Three Muses he wauked cheek bi jowl He wis a modest man, o douce demeanour Historian, fa hid a poet's sowel Rumour It wis the budgie stertit the rumour He clyped tae the dug Fa telt the cattie Fa spreid it far an wide Rumours ye ken Are like feathers Fleein frae a rippit bowster Aince lowse, they blaw awa Nae stopping them Fa Lues ye Baby? My da, my granma Whyles, my bairns Whyles, ma granbairns tae It's a queer thing luve Ye canna buy it Ye canna chore it Bit gin ye get it, Cherish it an store it Wooed I wis niver wooed Nae luver sent me flooers Or sweeties Or even a Valentine Boo-hoo sez you There's waur wints Than niver bein wooed Mebbe sae, I'll bet that ye wir lued Eneuch tae be wooed Bit I'm ayont thon noo I dinna brood Owersetts Stravaiger's Night Sang bi Goethe (1749-1832) : owersett into Doric Ower aa the taps o bens It's quaet. In aa the tree taps Ye feel Scarce a braith o win. The wee birdies are seelent In the wids Jist wyte…sune Ye'll be at rest as weel. Fowk fa are near me dinna ken bi Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) intae Doric Fowk fa are near me dinna ken That ye are nearer tae me than they are Fowk fa spikk tae me dinna ken that ma hairt is full Wi yer unspukken wirds Fow fa steer in ma path Dinna ken that I am waukin alane wi ye Fowk fa lue me dinna ken That their luve brings ye tae ma hairt. Liberté bi Paul Éluard (1895-1952) Owersett intae Doric Thousands of copies of this poem were dropped by plane over France in WW2 On ma jotters frae schule On ma brod an the trees On the san on the snaa I screive yer nemme On ilkie page read On aa the fite sheets Stane, bluid, paper or aise I screive yer nemme On the gowden picturs On the sodjers' wappons On the croons o kings I screive yer nemme On the jungle, the desert The nests an the busses On the echo o bairnhood I screive yer nemme On the winner o nichts On the fite breid o days On the sizzens thirsels I screive yer nemme On aa ma blue cloots On the puil, mildyewed sun On the loch leevin meen I screive yer nemme On the parks, the hynie awa The wings o the birdies On the winmill o shaddas I screive yer nemme On the froth o the clouds On the swyte o the storm On the derk fooshionless rain I screive yer nemme On the glimmerin makks On the bells o colour On pheesical truith I screive yer nemme On the waukened pathies On the opened wyes On the skittered airts I screive yer nemme On the lamp that gies licht On the lamp that is drooned On ma hoose reunited I screive yer nemme On the cuttit up fruit O ma keekin glaiss an chaumer On ma bed's teem shell I screive yer nemme On ma dug, greedy, douce On his lippenin lugs On his awkward paws I screive yer nemme On the sill o ma yett On weel kent ferlie On the lowe's sacred flow I screive yer nemme On aa the flesh that's in tune On the broos o ma friens On ilkie haun that raxxes I screive yer nemme On the glaiss o begecks On lips that wyte Heich ower the seelence I screive yer nemme On ma skaithed bields On ma drappit lichthooses On the waas o ma scunner I screive yer nemme On passionless absence On nyaakit alaneness On the merches o daith I screive yer nemme On health that's regotten On danger gaen by On hope wioot myndins I screive yer nemme Bi the pouer o the wird I regain ma life I wis born tae ken ye An tae nemme ye LIBERTY Scots Owersett o I Sell My Daughter for 100 Won, by Jang Jin-sung (N. Korea) This poem was written by a North Korean defector named Jang Jin-Sung. Trauchelt, in the mids o the mairt she stude "Fur 100 won, I sell ma dother." Wechty image o sorra A cardboard plaque aroon her neck she'd hung Neist tae her young dochter Trauchelt, in the mids o the mairt she stude A deef-mute mither She glowered doon at the grun, takkin nae tent o The banns the fowk aa cried As they glowered At the mither fa selt Her mitherhood, her ain flesh an bluid Her tears dried up Tho her dother, on larnin Her mither wid dee o a deidly disease Hid beeried her face in the mither's lang skirt An skirled, an grat Bit the mither stude still An her lips anely trimmilt Nae kennin foo tae thank the sodjer Fa slippit a hunner won intae her han As he telt her "It's yer mitherly luve An nae yer dother I'm buyin" She tuik the siller, an ran She wis a mother, An the 100 won she'd taen She spent on a loaf o wheat breid She ran tae her dother As faist as she cuid An pit a daud o the breid on the bairn's lips "Forgie me, ma bairn" In the mids o the mairt she stude An she grat. This poem was written by a North Korean defector named Jang Jin-Sung. Scots Owersetts o 5 poems by Nadia Anjuman: Afghani poetess On Nov.7,2005, Nadia Anjuman died over the weekend in the western city of Herat after being beaten by her husband, police officials revealed. The death of Ms. Anjuman at age 25 was mourned by colleagues and condemned by the United Nations as a tragic example of the violence that so many Afghan women still face. I Wish (Ghazal) I wish I could be reamin wi the wine o his bonnieness Or, brunt in the lowe o his luve, becam the maister o his hairt I wish I cuid be a teardrap brierin on the flouer o his face Or a curl o his scentit hair I wish I cuid be the stoor dowpit in his path Or aneth the sun o his luik, melt bittie bi bittie I wish I cuid be a secret staravaigin afore him Or becam rare wirds on his quaet lips I wish I cuid gyang wi ma frien, like a shadda in ilkie braith, Or bide up til daybrak frae the thrill o his nearness I'm giein up ma harns tae ma hairt's hope, that brakks frae pairtin I'm steekin the yett on wae, becamin meenlicht frae heid tae tae Priggin O lift, poor doon on this brunt yird- She is langin fur a drap o life's rain Her mou is dry, her hairt is on fire It's like luikin at daith O cloud, waucht tae this birssled lan A thoosan fermers luik fur ye Cam, fur the emerant bens o the toun Hae worn murner's claes fur ages O watter, O natur's healer, please cam Yer wint brakks the flooers' hairts The gairdens hae nae virr left Smiles hae dried frae lips O lord, dinna lat the fermer Dee drouthy in the lowe o time Ae drap is an aybydan giftie, Renewin the fermer's dweeble hauns O lord, shaw peety tae the dour traivellers O lord, shaw favour tae the sair hairt o the sea O lord, tae the spring's birsslin lips Tae the brunt deserts, poor the sainin o rain We are affrontit an brukken servants Drooned in sin, in blinnin derkness O lord, dinna lat us crine faerrer Sain us, tho we earned this skaith Poor watter on us, fur we're in flames A pucklie watter tae weet the spring's dry ee This birsslin eirde is yer disciple's chaumer Dinna lat it birl intae crockanation Peetifu Tales O peetifu tales Ye hae vrocht hames o oor hairts Thon greetin een, thon sunken yalla chikks They're the dour merks o yer presence O branches o sorra! A hunner springs an autumns cam an gae Buds dwine wi scoored hairts A hunner blockades clear an a hunner caravans pass Pharaoh dees an Nimrod's tale eyns- Yet yer still green an caller As if jist frae the gairden's wyme O birsslin wae Leave the reaches o oor hairts- They arenae the anelythings wirth kinnlin Fur aince, pass throwe anither's hoose O peetifu tales Yer company dings us doon Gin ye dinna sikk a new hoose, takk tent The morn we'll gae frae the sorrowfu wrack o life- An ye, skaithed an nyaakit In the limbo o time Will be hameless The Nicht's Poetry ghazal It's nicht-a poem kinnles ma thochts Keenness caimbs ma voyce like knottit hair Fit kinno lowe satisfees drooth? Fit scent steers up the corp o ma air? I dinna ken fit ben, fit ben o ma langin Blaws a caller win ben ma hett solstice Frae a bricht cloud faas sic pure licht— There's nae need fur ma greetin Spirks poor frae ma soughs like starnies The doo o prayer coories in ma Heiven Ma wud greets faa on ilkie line o his buik Luik foo they flow eeseless-ma God Eftir volumes o ilkie wird, a gaitherin place o ma ilkie thocht, Cames rebirth efter an era o ma quaet Mornin, dinna teir at the silk o ma dreams I sweir tae the nicht-it kinnles ma thochts In the Company o Spring's Dother Singin rain brocht ye here Ye gart ma luiks quicken The sicht o ye vrocht a stooshie inbye me Ye brocht cheenge tae ma gairden's dream Fit trimmlin's inbye ye? Fit harmony, yer makk That ilkie leaf o ye daunces wi itsel? Yer amorous buds an shyness an licht an win Aa work hard, nae kennin o ma luik Foo dae ye ken the doo sae weel That it tells ye secrets as sune's yer here? Fit gin I wir tae ken ye, O smert body? Fit wyceness daes it tell wi its sang? Ma hostess, gin ye hae admired ma poem Sikk me unner the shadda o a cypress tree Dowp me on a bass o skinklin clover An gie me twa bunches o sweet basil